There is something in the Anglo-Saxon temperament which is on the whole unfavourable to movements and groups; the great figures of the Victorian time in art and literature have been solitary men, anarchical as regards tradition, strongly individualistic, working on their own lines without much regard for schools or conventions.  The Anglo-Saxon is deferential, but not imitative; he has a fancy for doing things in his own way.  Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Byron—­ were there ever four contemporary poets so little affected by one another’s work?  Think of the phrase in which Scott summed up his artistic creed, saying that he had succeeded, in so far as he had succeeded, by a “hurried frankness of composition,” which was meant to please young and eager people.  It is true that Wordsworth had a solemn majesty about his work, practised a sort of priestly function, never averse to entertaining ardent visitors by conducting them about his grounds, and showing them where certain poems had been engendered.  But Wordsworth, as Fitz-Gerald truly said, was proud, not vain—­proud like the high-hung cloud or the solitary peak.  He felt his responsibility, and desired to be felt rather than to be applauded.

If one takes the later giants, Tennyson had a sense of magnificence, a childlike self-absorption.  He said once in the same breath that the desire of the public to know the details of the artist’s life was the most degrading and debasing curiosity,—­it was ripping people up like pigs,—­and added with a sigh that he thought that there was a congestion in the world about his own fame; he had received no complimentary letters for several days.

Browning, on the other hand, kept his raptures and his processes severely to himself.  He never seems to have given the smallest hint as to how he conceived a poem or worked it out.  He was as reticent about his occupation as a well-bred stockbroker, and did his best in society to give the impression of a perfectly decorous and conventional gentleman, telling strings of not very interesting anecdotes, and making a great point of being ordinary.  Indeed, I believe that Browning was haunted by the eighteenth-century idea that there was something not quite respectable about professional literature, and that, like Gray, he wished to be considered a private gentleman who wrote for his amusement.  When in later years he took a holiday, he went not for secret contemplation, but to recover from social fatigue.  Browning is really one of the most mysterious figures in literature in this respect, because his inner life of poetry was so entirely apart from his outer life of dinner-parties and afternoon calls.  Inside the sacred enclosure, the winds of heaven blow, the thunder rolls; he proclaims the supreme worth of human passion, he dives into the disgraceful secrets of the soul:  and then he comes out of his study a courteous and very proper gentleman, looking like a retired diplomatist, and talking like an intelligent commercial traveller—­a man whose one wish appeared to be as good-humouredly like everyone else as he conveniently could.